


Going Solo

by tilda



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [4]
Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post-One Direction, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 10:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4218762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/pseuds/tilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever else happened between them, however complicated it got, however fucked up, it always came down to this: they fancied the arse off each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Solo

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://tilda.tumblr.com/post/83341445781/write-like-nick-and-harry-together-and-harry-or) in April 2014.

‘Didn’t you used to be mates?’

 _Used to be?_ Nick is a little bit outraged even though he knows it’s true.

‘Yeah, we did.’

‘Get me an intro could you?’

Sean waggles his eyebrows. He’s Breakfast’s lively new intern. Sometimes too lively.

‘Sean,’ says Finchy in a warning voice.

‘It’s all right, Matt. Probably could, yes, if you wanted. Big fan are you?’

~

They wait outside the studio until the end of the interview. They can hear it piped out into the seating area (Nick never knows what to call it. It’s not really a corridor, or a foyer. It’s not a room either.) Sean leans forward, elbows on his knees while Nick sits back, legs crossed, feeling almost exactly like he’s bringing his son to meet David Beckham.

‘Well, it was lovely to see you Mr Styles,’ they can hear Greg saying through the PA, slightly out of sync with real Greg through the glass in the studio. ‘Grimmy usually hogs you, so it’s nice to have a go once in a while.’

Sean digs his elbow into Nick’s knee at that.

‘Thank you for having me, Mr James,’ Harry grins. He hasn’t looked over at them yet. Nick can’t tell if it’s deliberate, or if he genuinely hasn’t spotted them. ‘It was a pleasure.’

‘Good luck with the album – we’re big fans here at Radio 1 – and glad to have it confirmed it’s not the end of One Direction.’

Greg fades up 1D’s last single and lifts the phones off his head. He and Harry get up, Harry turning and spotting Nick and Sean finally. Nick watches his reactions like a hawk. There’s a definite pause, a hesitation when he sees Nick, before the genuine Styles smile. Nick lifts his hand in greeting and Sean wipes his palms on the knees of his jeans.

‘Fuck,’ he murmurs.

Nick squeezes his shoulder briefly as they get up and move towards the door of the studio. ‘Don’t worry. He’s a pussycat.’ Nick means it: Harry’s no danger to Sean. He hauls the door open and ushers Sean in front of him. He introduces him round and Harry is loveliness itself, signing a copy of the album and listening attentively to Sean’s questions.

Syco have given them all time off to pursue their own projects before going back for the final 1D album. Liam and Louis are producing; Zayn’s doing some ‘featuring’ work with bleeding edge DJs, Niall’s playing with Josh’s band. Harry’s album is pretty much the lo-fi troubador thing Nick had expected, except there’s a layer of potential meaning in the songs that Nick doesn’t get when Ed Sheeran’s on the radio.

Greg is winding up Sean’s encounter with a glance over at Nick and Nick realises he’s trying to give them time together before Harry leaves. Nick is touched and irritated at the same time. Greg draws Sean off into a discussion of his future at Radio 1. Harry has no choice but to turn to Nick.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

Nick wonders how noticeable it is that neither of them move towards each other, not for a handshake, not for a hug. Nick keeps his hands shoved into the tops of his jeans pockets, Harry rests the fingers of one hand lightly on the studio desk. But Sean and Greg are absorbed in their own conversation and haven’t noticed anything.

‘Sean wanted to… I had to…’ Nick waggles an elbow in Sean’s rough direction, not taking his hands out of his pockets. He hates his need to justify his presence.

‘Nice bloke,’ says Harry. ‘He new?’

‘Yeah,’ says Nick. He can’t just leave. He has to say something else. ‘Congratulations on the album.’

‘Thanks. Do you… have you heard it? Much of it?’

‘Just the single, and that thing that got leaked. We’ll definitely be playing it on Breakfast.’

As he watches Harry’s smile grow, Nick thinks, _is it about me? Are any of the songs about me? How many? Which ones? Which lines? Which words? Tell me_.

‘Thanks,’ Harry says.

Sean laughs loudly at something Greg says, startling them both. Harry’s head jerks briefly towards the other two but his eyes stay on Nick’s. Eye contact was always their substitute for touching, Nick thinks.

Whatever else happened between them, however complicated it got, however fucked up, it always came down to this: they fancied the arse off each other. Every now and then Nick wondered when he’d stop wanting Harry; and every time he sees him, the answer’s the same: not yet.

Nick can see out of the corner of his eye that Greg’s getting ready to leave the studio, slinging a bag over his head, still chatting to Sean, but herding them out. They all go out into the corridor and walk down it at different paces, Sean and Greg ahead, talking, then Harry, presumably heading towards the lifts to leave by the artists’ entrance to avoid the fans, Nick last, dawdling, fiddling with his phone. He looks up when he realises Harry has stopped. He’s standing at the beginning of the hallway that leads to the Gents, facing Nick. He lets his head incline in the direction of the hallway, and his gaze flickers deliberately down from Nick’s eyes to his mouth. Nick takes in a breath of shock, making his nostrils flare, which is apparently all the answer Harry needs before he’s heading down the hallway to the toilets, not looking behind him.

They crowd into the cubicle and the door bounces twice from the force of Harry swinging it shut. He snaps the bolt before he and Nick grab for each other blindly, mouths opening, tongues out, rough, hungry. Nick wants to get inside Harry, wants Harry inside him, and he doesn’t care how. Whatever else he doesn’t know about Harry, he knows Harry feels the same about this at least, and they both make noises of frustration as they push their tongues inside each other’s mouths, lips stretched into the shape of a shout, not enough.

Nick has to make a decision. If they had a night, if they had a few hours, Nick could have everything, but he’s just got this toilet, and now. He has to choose. And in the end, Nick doesn’t want Harry’s mouth.

He drops to his knees, grappling Harry’s fly, getting it open and dragging Harry’s jeans and pants down around his thighs, his pants catching on his erection and making it bob up, bapping Nick on the chin. Any other time they might laugh, but Nick just grabs for the base of Harry’s prick to still it, then he shoves it in his mouth and sucks. Harry lets out a whining noise, like he’s getting his arm stuck for a blood test, and there’s a bump as Harry’s head (Nick guesses) falls back against the cubicle wall. It echoes loudly in the toilet, reminding Nick that someone could come in at any moment.

He fills his hands with Harry’s arse and presses Harry inside his mouth, sinking as far down as he can, opening his throat, past his gag reflex, and listens to Harry trying to control his breath, try to stop himself from making too much noise, because he always was a noisy fucker ( _literally, ha,_ thinks Nick bleakly). Nick’s thighs are spread, bracketing Harry’s ankles, fencing him in, the inner tendons stretched just beyond their limit, the burn like a siren going off in time with Nick’s blood. He pulls back, dragging his lips lavishly over the length of Harry’s dick and then slides back down again, doing it again, and again, until he’s built a rhythm, one hand squeezing Harry’s arse, the other moved round to stroke his balls.

Harry’s hands are everywhere, touching Nick’s head, his shoulders, his face, fluttering around Nick’s lips, feeling his own prick going in and out of Nick’s mouth. Nick’s pretty sure this isn’t going to take long, and after a moment Harry’s regular, child-birth breathing escalates into another whimper, the only warning before his balls contract under Nick’s fingers and Harry stops at the top of a gasp. There’s a pulse on Nick’s tongue, and another, and Harry’s whispering _ah, ah, ah,_ then there’s come in the back of Nick’s throat, flooding into his mouth before he swallows it quickly, the smell of it inside him now, hot, bitter, foxy.

Nick kneads his own hard-on, trapped in his jeans, before twisting the fly-button open with shaky fingers – he didn’t have the brain power for it when he was sucking Harry – tugging the zip down and shoving his hand inside his pants, wrapping round his cock to bring himself off in three, four, five strokes, his forehead resting against Harry’s bare hip, the feeling of Harry’s fingers trailing through his hair.

They stay like that for a while, Nick on his knees, Harry slumped against the cubicle wall, getting their breath back. Then Nick gets unsteadily to his feet. He begins to tug Harry’s jeans back up and Harry takes over, tucking himself in, zipping, buttoning. Nick leans back against the opposite wall and watches. When Harry’s done they stand and stare at each other for a moment before Harry leans in, bringing his hand up, pressing thumb and forefinger either side of Nick's jaw, like he's one of those funny little Hershey’s kisses you get in America, that can be opened by just squeezing the middle. He can though, and he opens his mouth and lets Harry raid it before he turns away to fumble open the lock and leave.

Nick stands there a long time after he hears the main door go. He sinks down the wall and tips forward so he’s on his knees again. He bends over to touch his forehead to the cold lino, just where Harry’s feet were. 

‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,’ he says in a rhythmic, echoey whisper against the floor.

Then he gets up, puts himself together, and goes out into the corridor. PAs and interns go by, carrying folders and clipboards. Zane appears, going past him to the loo.

‘Grimmy. All right, man?’

'Yeah. All right,’ Nick replies and puts one foot in front of the other, heading towards the lifts.


End file.
